The Girl Who Watched: Part One
by Kiley S. Snape
Summary: "Together or not at all." How those words haunted me. I was sent to the doorstep of the only consulting detective in the world...who before now, I had believed existed only in the pages of a book. There was no going back, and so I had to move forward with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

The Girl Who Watched

Part One

by Kiley S. Snape

"Raggedy Man," I murmured tremulously, and spun around to look at my best friend, "Good bye."

The Angel's touch was warm despite my thought of it being cold like stone. In fact, it felt almost like the Doctor's. I fell beyond space and time, and felt like I was an old piece of linen being torn apart in all different directions.

"Oi! Watch where you're going!"

I was not in Manhattan anymore that was for certain. I spun aimlessly about, looking at all the flashing billboards that blared their messages and advertisements all around me. I even saw a few photographs of myself. "London, my time," I concluded tremulously.

"Come in," a baritone voice snapped, impatiently waving me into the building.

 _He knows me- so that could only mean…_ a broad, watery grin broke out on my face as I hurried inside. My Raggedy Man had already found me.

"Oh hello, dear," an elderly woman greeted me warmly, "A case for the boys?"

I shot her a perplexed frown before I followed the Doctor up the narrow flight of stairs. "Are we here to see a friend? Can they help us get Rory?" I asked breathlessly.

The Doctor ignored me, not even so much as a backwards glance to assure me that he knew I was there. "John!" he called out, dropping unceremoniously into a chair.

"You're back already?" a shorter man said as he walked into the room from the kitchen, "I thought you were going to be a whi- I- I know you!" He pointed a finger at me with wide eyes.

"Well, I don't know you," I grumbled, and turned my attention back to the Doctor. My Raggedy Man had his eyes closed and his fingers steepled beneath his nose.

"You're Amy Pond!" the other man continued, "Amy Pond, the model, is in our flat!"

"John, we're out of biscuits," the Doctor announced suddenly, bright eyes open.

"What?"

"The biscuits, John," the Doctor snapped, and stared intently at my person with those emotionless aquamarine eyes. He waited until John had left before he honed in one me like a trained bloodhound. _What had happened to my best friend to result in such vacant, lifeless eyes?_

"Where did you come from?" the Doctor demanded from behind his fingers, "You don't belong here- more importantly, you don't want to belong here. Pupil dilated, escalated heartbeat…you're frightened and overwhelmed. Everyone else is dull enough to fall for the smokescreen you call your identity, but I will not allow it. Mycroft or Moriarty?"

"Doctor," I began tremulously, scared that this regeneration of my best friend had become so akin to the unfeeling Cybermen and Daleks, "It's me-"

"-I assure you, I am not a doctor," the man remarked coldly, "Who do you work for?"

"No one!" I answered in earnest, "I want to go back- take me back. I want to be with Rory…I don't care if I can't have you- I want my Rory!"

"Have you gone mad? Stark staving?"

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he came back with a bag from the shop around the corner, "Are you here with a case for Sherlock? I am sorry if he was rude- he gets cross with details."

"Why…Why does he keep calling you 'Sherlock'?" I quipped.

"Because that would be my name," the ice man, Sherlock, simpered.

"Right," I scoffed, "And he is Dr. John Watson."

"Well- yes," John said with a scowling frown, "Sherlock, did you drug her? What did I tell you about doin-"

"-Bloody hell! You two can't exist! Yer fictional characters from a book!"

"I'm phoning Lestrade," John announced.

"Too late," Sherlock Holmes dismissed, "Mycroft has already arrived."

I dropped into the chair behind me, faintly wincing as my tailbone caught a support bar, and held my hair away from my face with a clammy hand. Melody was wrong- the Angel did not take me to the man who waited two thousand years to love me, but to a man who possessed the Doctor's worst traits…and instead of having two hearts, like my beloved time lord, Sherlock Holmes had none.

"How could Mycroft already know?" John Watson demanded.

"Because of his surveillance," Sherlock explained impatiently.

"Sherlock," the elderly woman announced, "Your brother is here-"

"-Obviously, Mrs. Hudson, given the fact that you have been drawn away from your afternoon show."

"And good morning to you, Sherlock."

"Save the pleasantries," Sherlock growled, and rose suddenly from the sofa. He reached out to take hold of the nearby violin and then plucked away at the strings.

"Still putting up with him then, John?" Mycroft Holmes continued, as if the younger Holmes had not said anything. I ceased my nervous fidgeting when the elder's eyes fell upon me; his right brow twitched in the slightest of quirks to express his intrigue before his expression fell back to disdained aloofness. "Amelia Pond…it seems my brother has attracted the attention of not just one, but two beautiful women," he noted smoothly.

"Whut?" I blurted thickly.

"Oh- what is the phrase," Mycroft murmured, "Ah yes… _spoilers_."

"You stay away from her," I spat from behind clenched teeth.

"Good day, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft announced to the lady who lingered in the doorway.

"Do play nice, boys," the woman fretted as she made her way downstairs.

Mycroft waited until she had descended, and then honed in on me with a chilling gaze. "What being brought you here?" he demanded.

"You know, then?" I remarked.

"The occasional file graced my desk," he dismissed in casual airs, earning a scoff from Sherlock.

"It was an Angel," I explained, hopeful that this Holmes had the means to send me to Rory…or the Doctor, so that the time lord could take me to the former.

Sherlock scoffed once more, John looked skeptical, but I knew Mycroft understood. His lips pursed briefly, and he regarded me with a newfound intrigue. "My my, what trouble you have caused for yourself, Amelia Pond," he tutted, "You certainly know how to rile the wrong sort."

"It's Amy," I corrected tersely, "Not Amelia. I want to go back."

"You can't. We do not possess the technology."

"I'm stuck here?" I whispered hoarsely, the breath in my chest suddenly stolen away. I cast my frantic eye to the far wall- a yellow smiley face spray-painted and marred by bullet holes entered my line of vision. _What was this place?_

"Unless _he_ personally comes to fetch you, yes. Perhaps next time you will rethink playing with fate when it concerns a Weeping Angel," Mycroft explained as he made for the door, "Take care of this one, brother mine, you may find her…entertaining- more so than your dear _doctor_."

Hot tears blurred my vision as I gazed down at the floor beneath my feet. A tell-tale flicker of gold on my hand mocked me out of the corner of my eye; my shoulders trembled from the exertion of keeping my sobs silent.

"What was that about?" John inquired faintly.

"Something new," Sherlock purred in strange delight, and he rounded on me.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he inserted himself between us, "She isn't something to occupy yourself with when you don't have a case- she is crying, leave her be!" He dug through his coat pocket, his hand resurfaced with a handkerchief, and held it out for me to take.

I dabbed my puffy eyes and flashed him a small, grateful grin. "Thank you," I muttered, and took a tremulous breath. I did not know where to look in this place, and now I understood why the Doctor always paced and darted about like a madman when his mind was overrun with thought. All blurry thought left at the mention of my best friend, and I looked up beneath my smoky lashes.

Sherlock Holmes was staring at me. Cold, calculating eyes pierced mine, and I found myself unable to tear my own away. Yes, the consulting detective before me bore a strange similarity to the Doctor- but the shortcoming was…I can't find the word to aptly describe it.

"I'm not scared of you," I mumbled.

"And why would you be?" Sherlock mused, barely tilting his head to one side.

"You use that head of yours to frighten people," I explained, "But you will never make me afraid of you."

"No, I imagine losing your husband and possibly your daughter will do that just fine."

"Sherlock! What-" John sputtered.

"-No, he is right," I said, "That is one of the few things on this earth that will scare me." The two men regarded each other, and I took in the relationship between the doctor and the consulting detective. It was most peculiar, perhaps that was how Rory- at first- perceived the Doctor and me.

"Do not think of them, the energy wasted over sentiment will yield no result," Sherlock noted, seemingly omnipotent. He idly leaned back, still regarding me to see if he failed to unearth any detail in his initial deductions.

"So, Amy…where are you from?" John asked gently.

"I was born in Scotland, obviously, but moved to Leadsworth to live with my aunt after the disappearance of my parents," I explained, "They got sucked into the crack in my wall, but the Doctor brought them back."

"Nonsense," Sherlock scoffed.

"Many before you had said the same, Sherlock Holmes, but I know the truth. And you will never convince me that all my life has been a hallucination…none of it is a lie," I growled. I looked out the winder, the winter-grey sky blanketed London in a half-hearted attempt to appear laden with the promise of a white Christmas. But nothing compared to the white Christmas that the Doctor has taken me and Rory to.

 _It was on a planet, whose name I had long forgotten, and the entire place glistened endlessly with what I had first thought to be snow. 'It's stardust, Pond,' the Doctor explained, 'Usually the dust does dark and gets all boring- but_ _ **this planet!**_ _' At that, he clapped his hands together and beamed at me. 'When the bits of dust lands on this planet, it bonds with the surface…and rejuvenates to a smaller version of its former state! Happy Christmas, Pond!'_

"Happy Christmas, Raggedy Man," I murmured, uncaring that the two men before me stared.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Christmas party at Baker Street**_

 _ **SH**_

"How..?" I began, only to scoff and roll my eyes, "Sherlock." I quickly replied, ' _ **Last I checked, we never exchanged numbers, Mr. Holmes.**_ '

 _ **No, we didn't. Dull people abound, the drinks will be many. You are alone. Come.**_

 _ **SH**_

His words hurt, as they always did, but then I should no longer be surprised…it was Sherlock, after all. I toddled around my newly acquired flat, stuck in a rut as to what to do. I glanced out the window and saw that London had given her citisens a white Christmas. "Don't be alone, Doctor," I thought aloud, and idly chewed on my thumb's s knuckle, "Please, do that for me."

' _Then neither can you be!_ '

I smiled dumbly to myself at how even though he could only exist in my mind he still somehow managed to chide me. I pulled on a pair of black stockings, a skirt, a jumper, and then my recently purchased replacement- red Converse shoes. With a final deep breath, I grabbed my key to the flat and then made the short walk to Baker Street.

A faint spatter of snow still clung to the streets, and fresh flakes fell languidly through the air- several finding their way into my hair. The patches of snow crunched beneath my feet as I strolled, idly taking in the decor that sporadically adorned the buildings of Baker Street. A faint smile tugged at my lips at the sight of 221B, and I could hear the faint voice of Sherlock's violin.

"Going up as well?" a breathless voice inquired. I turned to see the other new arrival. She was pretty- in that innocuous, warm way…although she seemed a bit overdressed to be attending a small, motley assembled, Christmas party- especially for one hosted by Sherlock Holmes.

"Yup- I'm Amy Pond," I replied.

"The model?!"

"Mhm," I hummed, "Shall we?"

"Oh-yes," she replied, "My name is Molly Hooper. Did John invite you?"

"John has told me all about you," I replied smoothly, "Oh no, Sherlock invited me."

"Oh dear Lord," Sherlock muttered as Molly's foot caught on the last step.

"Hello!" Molly trilled nervously.

"Amy, dear! The boys didn't tell me you were coming!" Mrs. Hudson greeted me, shooting the aforementioned a chiding glance before she me into a warm embrace. "You look tired," she fretted, gently patting my face.

"The nightmares," Sherlock announced, standing just behind me.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson chided in her usual manner, and she smiled apologetically at me.

"Hullo, Sherlock," I greeted the consulting detective softly, but the man had already walked away.

"Have you been enjoying the new job, Amy?" Mrs. Hudson inquired.

"Mhm- the contract with this company is much more flexible, and the pay is good."

"Take a day off, Sherlock," John growled from his place beside his recent girlfriend, Janette.

"Oh, but we've all seen the gift, perfectly wrapped- with a bow. Special then," Sherlock heedlessly continued, "Shade of red echoes the lipstick, an unconscious association, one she is trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has _looove_ on her mind. The fact she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all. That all suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn…"

I watched Molly wilt under Sherlock's brutal deductions, and I slowly made my way from Mrs. Hudson to the pathologist. "Sherlock," I warned lowly, but he paid me no regard.

"…And that she is seeing him tonight is evident from the makeup and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts-"

"-Sherlock Holmes!" I interjected, just as he was opening the card attached to the gift to discover the addressee.

"You always say such horrible things," Molly mused meekly, "Every time. Always. Always…"

"I am sorry…" Sherlock spoke lowly, which caused John and I eyed him in our surprise, "Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He bent down and ghosted his lips across her cheek. A satisfied, post-coital sigh sounded through the silent flat.

"Oh," Molly stammered in frantic mortification, "That wasn't-"

"-It was me," Sherlock concluded curtly.

"Jesus," Greg Lestrade laughed, "Really?"

"Fifty-seven," John noted from his seat on the sofa next to Janette.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"Fifty-seven of those texts- that I've heard," John remarked, and then looked at me.

"Seventeen when you were out," I answered softly, "Someone's keen."

"Nonsense," Sherlock dismissed whilst his aquamarine eyes narrowed intently at the contents of the gift box. He made to go to his bedroom down the hall, and I began to follow him. He had a look I had seen flicker across the Doctor's face several times.

"So- it's Amy, right?" Greg Lestrade commented, inadvertently cutting my line of sight on Sherlock and my attempt to follow him.

"Yeah," I replied, ad briefly glanced at the DI, "John told me that you and your wife decided to try to patch things up."

"It would be a waste, ya know, all those years."

"Molly- could you come to the morgue? I need to identify a body for my brother. Amy, you're coming with us," Sherlock announced, suddenly reappearing from out of his bedroom.

"What did I do?" I blurted in instinctual indignation, causing John to briefly laugh.

"O-Of course, Sherlock," Molly stammered, cheeks tinged pink at the direct address from the consulting detective.

"Come along, Pond."

Whilst Sherlock, Mycroft, and Molly looked over a corpse, I sat out in the empty corridor. _Come along, Pond._ I threaded my fingers together as an overwhelming thought took hold. Those were the last words the Doctor had said to me before I surrendered to the Weeping Angel; without even knowing, Sherlock Holmes had brought my worst memory to light…the day they took me away from my husband and my best friend.

"…Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," Mycroft warned.

"They all care so much. Especially her," Sherlock concluded, and it was then I realised I was crying. Furtively, I wiped away the tears and slowly made my way to the Holmes men. "Have you heard anything about him?" I asked Mycroft.

"He has gone abroad- been away for quite some time," the elder Holmes answered.

"Good night," Molly called out faintly as she left the morgue.

"Give John my best," Mycroft bid, and began his languid departure.

I wordlessly fell into step with Sherlock as he left St. Bart's and ducked into the crowd that still coagulated London's streets. It was strange, seeing an expression I believed only the Doctor wore on the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes. I remember staying in the TARDIS, either sitting or lying beside my best friend, for what could have been days outside the blue call box and waiting. The Doctor never told me the cause of so much grief-induced reflection, and I imagine Sherlock would do the same.

Knowing that Sherlock, unless in his mind palace, hated to be idle- I silently followed him as he fluttered about London. He inadvertently led me through small streets and alleyways that I would have never known; the consulting detective could feel the heart of the capital- knew every shadowed alcove and semi-tunnel.

When we arrived back at 221B, John was pacing in front of a bored Janette. "Hello," he grunted.

Sherlock ignored the greeting, as he was wont to do, and went straight to his bedroom. Mrs. Hudson and John shared a worried glance, and I turned my attention to the latter. "I will stay- I know you and Janette have plans," I announced softly.

"I couldn't-"

"-John," I interjected, "I haven't go anyone else in the world but you and him. Let me help- I know what to do." I brushed past him and ducked into Sherlock's room. I was surprised at the Spartan furnishings, surely with the clutter situation of the rest of the flat his room would be the same. No family portraits, or dust collector, the only decoration was a large periodic table of elements on the wall to the right of the door. But then again, since Sherlock spent so little time sleeping- there wouldn't have been anything telling.

The aforementioned was lying on his back on the right side of the bed, and he had carelessly settled on top of the covers in his coat. I toed off my shoes and then approached Sherlock. He followed all of my wordless cues without any protest or reaction; I slid off his coat and hung it on the rack, and then untied his shoes and set them by the foot of the bed. The consulting detective tensed when I settled beside him, inexperienced in the ways of physical contact with someone other than a corpse- or a piece of one. But, like those times with the Doctor, it was not a time for words…be they lame explanations or stammering sympathies. I threaded my fingers together once more, and rested them against my stomach as I blankly gazed up at the ceiling.

My thoughts came back to the Doctor. I wondered where he was, and if he was alone this Christmas. He shouldn't ever be alone- I could manage, I would survive- but the Time Lord could not. A part of me still wished that somehow I could still travel with him, but an even larger part understand that it wasn't to be. All companions had their end, and just like Rose Tyler, mine had untimely arrived.

I imagine to an outsider looking in, Sherlock Holmes and I struck quite the pair. Two figures lying beside one another on Christmas, fully clothed, and both thinking of another. For one, it was an alien from Gallifrey- the other, a recently deceased dominatrix. Quite the pair,indeed.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."


	3. Chapter 3

The following morning, I was the first to wake. Sherlock looked like he belonged in a museum- due to the austere manner in which he slept. I slid out of bed and padded into the kitchen. I set about making coffee, knowing Sherlock preferred it over tea in the morning. My stomach grumbled drowsily and so I braved the refrigerator. I laughed faintly to myself at the discovery of toes where an ordinary person would have bacon or sausage. Next came an entire head.

Fortunately, I did discover some eggs, spinach, and feta cheese that were not expired or somehow spoiled…there was a time I found various specimens placed in the take out I had left. I went to the stove and began to make myself an omelet. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," I said warmly as the landlady quietly came into the flat, "Don't worry. I have Sherlock's coffee brewing already."

"Thank you, dear, you didn't sleep on that awful sofa did you? Poor thing, I have told the boys a hundred times to get a pull out for company…though no one stays the night except for you," she rambled.

"Er, no- I didn't sleep on sofa, I slept in John's bed," I lied.

"Out with Janette, then? Can't say I think it will last- she doesn't seem like the right one for our John," Mrs. Hudson confided as she began to tidy up.

"No, I don't think so either," I agreed. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at the cluttered table, my lips twitched at the microscope just to my left. The hot brew hit the back of the tongue, languidly spreading out, and the smooth citrus note of the beans brilliantly flooded my senses.

"Honestly," Mrs. Hudson tutted, "Toes- in the fridge!"

"I once came across dinosaurs on a spaceship with Queen Nefertiti whining in my ear," I remarked thought, "I think that's worse."

"Oh, Amy!" the elderly woman chuckled, "You should really write the things that come flying out of your mouth down! They would make lovely children stories!"

"Something smells good," John grunted drowsily, placing his coat on the rack.

"Care for some?" I mused, and rose to plate the omelet. At John's grunt of affirmation, I pulled two plates from the sparse cupboards.

"How was last night?" John asked lowly, casting a furtive glance back at the hallway leading to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Quiet," I answered, and set his half of the omelet in front of him.

"Ta," he said as he tucked in, and that was when we heard the water running in the loo. He shot me a tense look, which I returned, and we waited for Sherlock to emerge.

The consulting detective looked as he always did- indifferent and bored. I dropped two sugars into a cup and then pour the steaming coffee in; Sherlock idly took it from my outstretched hand, and then continued to make his way to his chair. He paid me no heed, despite my following eyes, and went to his music stand.

And then Sherlock Holmes began composing.

So it went on in a similar manner for days. Much of my time was spent at the location of my current shoot, but John kept me informed. Sherlock had taken to writing sad songs, and had yet to take on a case that involved leaving 221B. If Sherlock had been more like the Doctor, I would have said he was heartbroken…but Sherlock Holmes did not have a heart.

"See you around, Amy!" Avery said, and the crew left with their cameras.

My mobile hummed in my coat that was slung over my chair. I trotted over, aware of the precarious angle my feet were due the heels strapped around them. "Hullo?" I greeted.

"Amy, you have to watch Sherlock," John growled, "Otherwise I am going to need your help hiding the cock's corpse!"

"All right, all right! I am on my way," I laughed as I stepped out onto the street, "Let me be the one to kill him if you change your mind before I get there." I disconnected the line and hailed a cab. "Baker Street," I instructed, and leaned my head back. I had a feeling that today was one that would last forever. Yes, time would pass, but so much would remain still.

At least the door to the flat wasn't kicked in like the last time I had dropped by for a visit. I ducked in without further ceremony, and jogged clumsily up the stairs. "John! I'm here!" I called out faintly.

"Maybe Amy will put up with you- I need some air," John huffed, and stalked past me, "Ta, Amy, and good luck."

"All right," I sighed, and dropped into Sherlock's chair as I cocked my head at the consulting detective. He watched John disappear out of sight, and there seemed to be an impatient edge about him. "Come on," I drawled, "What's with you?"

"That would imply that I am out of my normal state of being, which I am not," he remarked, and stiffly ran the bow of his violin across its chords.

I flinched at the harsh sound and then rolled my eyes. "Sherlock, there's nothing ordinary about you- so stop the dramatics. Deduce me- you haven't informed me how my husband and I separated." I threw my legs over one of the chair's arms and regarded Sherlock. At the mention of deduction, he tensed further. He had yet to figure that one out- and it drove him mad. He looked like thunder…an intangible storm that still managed to frighten everyone. I took a healthy swig of his tea that lay untouched on the small table. "When I was a little girl, I had an imaginary friend," I began, "And when I grew up- he came back. He's called the Doctor. He comes from somewhere else. He's got a box called the TARDIS that's bigger on the inside and can travel anywhere in time and space. I ran away with him…I ran through time and across galaxies before the Angel sent me here."

"Amazing-"

"-He is," I agreed.

"Not your imaginary friend. The hallucinogen has already hit your system," Sherlock continued as if I had never spoken.

"Halluc-whut?" I slurred, blinking slowly in to clear my blurring vision.

"Anesthetic combined with a mild hallucinogen- my own cocktail- can't have you following me or trying to stop me," Sherlock explained. He bent over me and took hold of my wrists. "Elevated," he noted softly, "But that's to be expected."

"Sherlock," I grunted.

"Don't try to stave off the effects," Sherlock explained, "You will be quite safe here."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson screamed.

I clumsily lurched upright, very nearly toppling off the couch in the process, and clutched my pulsating head. My vision was consumed by swirling black shadows, and my heart clenched at the sight of the flat's door being kicked in.

"Shit! There's another one," a dark eyed American exclaimed.

"Looks like she knows her way around," another growled, "Get her, too!"

Two more entered the flat and lifted me off the sofa. "Let go of me!" I yelped, voice rough from my medically induced slumber, "Doctor!" My throat seized up at the instinctual cry, and I dipped my head to hide my misty eyes.

"Oh, Amy," Mrs. Hudson wailed tremulously, "Oh, I didn't know you were up here!"

We were shoved into two of the kitchen chairs that the American's had placed in the sitting room. I reached out and took hold of Mrs. Hudson's trembling hand. "It's all right," I whispered, "Sherlock and John will be here soon."

"Shut. Your. Mouth!" the leader barked.

I narrowed my eyes at the man, and Madame Kovarian's face flickered over his. I shoved the memory aside and did what Rory would have done…I observed. _Ear pieces, all carrying at least one fire arm, and seemingly on a mission of utmost importance._

"Where is the cell phone of Irene Adler?" the leader demanded coldly.

Mrs. Hudson's hand squeezed mine tightly, and I turned my attention back to the man. "And what would the CIA want with a woman's mobile? Not gentleman-like at all." I quipped.

 _ **SMACK!**_

"Amy!" Mrs. Hudson cried.

"Shut up," the agent snarled, and looked at Mrs. Hudson, "Now, tell me- where is the cell phone?"

"I- I don't know," the landlady whimpered, "I'm just their landlord."

"Think harder!"

"Leave her out of this! She wouldn't know!" I spat.

"You do? Why?"

"I happen to live here," I explained, in what the Doctor called my Scottish scorn voice. One of the many things I had picked up from my travels with the Doctor was how to lie to protect the innocent.

"Do you now?" the CIA agent rounded back to me his face disgustingly close to my own. "Do you hear that, Mr. Archer, Sherlock Holmes seems to have a heart after all?"

"Nooo," I drawled, "I just happen to live here."


	4. Chapter 4

_**SMACK!**_

The man's ring struck the tender skin of my lip, and I felt it split under the unyielding metal. The CIA agent took hold of my shoulders fiercely and bore down upon me. "Where is the camera phone of Irene Adler?" he asked quietly.

"Would one of your apes have a photograph? I don't know who tha-" my voice caught in my throat when the apes in question rushed me. They roughly set about searching my person; they pawed and pinched at me- one even went so far as to squeeze my breasts. I winced but otherwise did nothing.

 _I refuse to be scared- these men are nothing when you've dealt with Madame Kovarian and the Silence_. My eyes snapped shut and I began to breathe. _You are the Girl Who Waited, Amelia Pond, you made a sonic screwdriver- you saved dinosaurs in space- you fought off faux vampires in Venice. You will not be frightened by these men._

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson cried.

"Don't snivel, Mrs. Hudson. It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet…what a tender world that would be."

My eyes snapped open and I saw Sherlock standing in front of us.

"But you know what I am looking for, don't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"I believe I do," Sherlock mused, "First get rid of your boys."

"Why?" the man demanded, pressing the guns harder into the backs of Mrs. Hudson's and my heads.

"I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room," Sherlock stated.

"Go to the car," the CIA ordered to his goons.

"No, get in the car and drive away. You can't trick me- it doesn't work on me!" Sherlock corrected tersely.

"Don't think I'll assume you don't have a gun. I'm gonna search you."

Sherlock took a step back and held his hands out. "Oh, I insist," he sneered. He had a plan, unlike the Doctor, Sherlock Holmes always had a plan. For a brief second, his eyes met mine and I knew we were going to be okay. As the CIA agent came around from behind that was when the consulting detective struck. He wheeled about, wielding a can of aerosol cleaner, and sprayed it into our captor's eyes. The American grunted in a muffled curse, and foolishly shut his eyes. With teeth bared, Sherlock headbutted him and knocked him down to the ground- unconscious. The consulting detective made his way back to us, and in that moment I became afraid of him. He had the look I had seen on the Doctor- the same expression he bore at the Pandorica, the same expression when he read the tell-tale chapter title of River's book in Manhattan. Sherlock Holmes didn't seem human anymore. "No stitches required," he concluded darkly as he examined my oozing lip, and I shivered beneath his empty gaze.

"Mrs. Hudson, take Amy over to the sofa."

"Oh, Amy, you poor girl," Mrs. Hudson mumbled tremulously.

"I am fine, Mrs. Hudson," I assured the woman, "I have had worse." I stiffly rose to my feet and followed the landlady to the sofa as Sherlock dragged the unconscious CIA agent over to the chair I previously occupied, and quickly bound the man there.

Sherlock walked over to the kitchen table, and scribbled a note on a scrap of paper. He did not even cast a glance in our direction as he stalked downstairs. I beheld our captor warily, and exhaled loudly. Mrs. Hudson took hold of my hand as she began to sniffle, and I wordlessly leaned into her. Sherlock came back into the flat and plucked up the discarded gun; he aimed it at the CIA still slumped against his restraints, and stiffly took a seat in the chair closest to the door.

"Sherlock," I voiced, but the statue ignored.

Hurried footsteps sometime later, after the American decided to regain consciousness, and John burst into the room. "What's going on?" he demanded, albeit a little breathless.

"Mrs. Hudson and Amelia have been attacked by an American. I am restoring balance to the universe," Sherlock explained, and raised his mobile to his ear.

My lips twitched at the mention of the universe, which the great Sherlock Holmes knew so little about. John hurried over to us, entering his 'Doctor Watson' mode, and began to look us over. "Oh my god! Are you two all right?" he pressed, and took another look at my bruising eye and split lip. "Jesus, what did he do to you?" he grunted.

Mrs. Hudson was hit with a fresh wave of hysteria, and covered her face with her hands as she burst into tears. "Oh, I'm just being so silly!" she wailed shrilly.

John wrapped an arm around her and drew her close. "No, no," he assured her.

My eyes were still on Sherlock. The consulting detective rose to his feet. "Downstairs. Take them downstairs, and look after her," he instructed John.

"All right- all right," John spoke lowly as he helped Mrs. Hudson to his feet, "Come along. Let's get Amy patched up." Mrs. Hudson needed no further incentive to leave the flat, but I held back. John followed suite when he realised I had only risen from the sofa. "Are you gonna tell me what's going on?" he demanded softly, and the two men shared a murderous look at the CIA agent.

"I expect so. Now go."

"Sherlock," I murmured, and drew close to the man. I placed a hand on his arm, and felt his muscles tighten and coil beneath my fingers. He was so much like my Raggedy Man sometimes it hurt, but then he was so different- my best friend craved touch…whereas Sherlock Holmes was repelled by it. "Sherlock…I know…but please, remember who you are," I mumbled thickly.

The man's brow furrowed in what I assumed was consideration, but then his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared when the former took note of my still bleeding lip.

"Amy!" John called tersely.

I did not expect to see the CIA agent alive. I descended into Mrs. Hudson's flat where John was expecting me.

"I got the medic kit for you, John," the landlady noted, shaking like a leaf, as she placed the compact case on the table.

John took out the antiseptic and moistened a gauze pad with it. "What were you hoping to achieve back there?" he grunted as he dabbed my lip.

"Ooh, that looks like it stings," Mrs. Hudson fretted, "She hasn't cried once, John. Must be the shock."

John absentmindedly nodded as he continued to clean the cut. A shape plummeted down past the window out of the corner of my eye. I jerked away from John's gentle ministrations to regard the groaning figure amongst the mass of damaged bins.

"Oh, that was right on my bins," Mrs. Hudson noted lamely.

"I said I was fine," I snapped tersely, "I've had worse." I rose to feet and stalked past the astonished doctor. "Far worse," I added darkly, and ducked out of 221 Baker Street. I did not need to look over my shoulder to verify the steely aquamarine eyes that bore through the back of my head as I strode down the street. I thrust out an open hand and signaled a cab.

My mind hurtled from one thought to the other as I dropped into the seat. How many dangers had the Doctor saved me from? When did the transformation in which I relied upon Sherlock to save me instead of my Raggedy Man? Why had the consulting detective's name been first to fall from my lips? With an impossible dilemma such as this, I needed the impossible- I needed my daughter.

I looked out the window of the cab and instead of seeing a panoramic of London streets- I saw my adventures with the Doctor and River. How strange the human world seemed after it all, how dull. My mobile hummed in my pocket, but I ignored it.

"Tell me the bloke looks worse," the cab mused, eying me with his paternal concern.

"Much," I assured him ruefully, and ducked out of the cab.

I hurried into my flat, afraid that Mycroft would have someone waiting to take me back to Baker Street. I dug through the pile of various rubbish on my bedside table until I found what I was searching for. An innocuous, generic, golden key- held aloft between my TARDIS-blue lacquered nails. A key for the power of Time and Relative Dimension in Space…

My mobile buzzed again. I pulled it out, and unlocked my screen.

 _It is illegal to leave the scene of the crime, particularly when you are the victim._

 _SH_

 _Ignoring me will not work._

 _SH_

 _John is upset with you. Cursing and muttering about 'shock.'_

 _SH_

 _Why were you not afraid? A woman would be even more unbearable after an attack like this. Your heart rate wasn't elevated…pupils normally contracted._

 _SH_

I turned my mobile off, and set it on my bedside table. My tongue ran over my split lip tentatively as I stared at the smooth expanse of wall in front of me. I kept expecting a crack to appear, for this all to be merely in a dimension that should never have been. I fell back onto my bed and wished I could talk to the Doctor- one last time.


	5. Chapter 5

"John!" Sherlock called out softly, "We have a client."

"What- in your bedroom?" the aforementioned scoffed, and we shared a skeptical look. I trotted down the hall, squeezed past Sherlock's narrow frame, and stumbled into the one place I had yet to see of the flat. I expected the Spartan furnishings- the periodic table of elements. I did not expect to find a woman in his bed. A blinding spark of unannounced rage ignited in my chest, and I felt my face grow hot. She was beautiful, in the way marble statues were…that cold, emotionless perfection that brought great envy to many. But me, I pitied it.

"Sherlock, who is she?" I asked tersely.

"The Woman," the consulting detective purred.

"Irene Adler," John continued, knowing Sherlock's answer gave me nothing.

"The…" I trailed off, not finding the words that blurred through my mind.

"A dominatrix," the woman in question answered, voice sultry with sleep. She gracefully slid out of bed, naked, and donned on something of Sherlock's hanging from the hook on the door. "Oh, look at that pretty face frown," Irene Adler tutted, circling about me whilst Sherlock's eyes were fixed on her. My eyes narrowed into slits at the sight of the navy blue dressing gown draped around her flawless figure. "She doesn't like me…she must not know that I would love to play with her," the dominatrix noted, amused.

"I'm leaving," I spat, "I dealt with vampire tarts in Venice with more class than you."

"Amy-" John called after me.

And I wished it had been Sherlock instead, but his brilliant mind was otherwise occupied. I left the flat, and went to the first place that came to mind. The London Museum. It had been centuries since I last visited, but that was with my Raggedy Man…the time when I was freed from the Pandorica and Rory became my Centurian. My mobile faintly chimed in my coat pocket, but I ignored it- knowing it was John. Sherlock had a…new distraction, and I was to be deleted.

I sat down on a bench overlooked the gardens, and wished to be back at _Le Louvre_. Back with Vincent's creations, and the Doctor, art and adventure was a heady cocktail. Back to a somehow simpler time, where it didn't ache to be with the person that made you breathe. Sherlock Holmes had become that beautiful person I had spoken about what felt like a millennia ago- the one who kept me on London. I fell in love with the heartless consulting detective.

Perhaps I was the only one who knew he had left the country- John certainly did not give any inclination to knowing. But then, that was certainly how Sherlock planned it, for no one to ever know he left 221B. I kept quiet- Sherlock would always have his secrets, just like the Doctor.

It was strange to be summoned by Mycroft. I slipped into Speedy's, and found John with the elder Holmes already deep in conversation. I dropped into the empty seat next to the former and looked at Mycroft expectantly. "You canceled my shoot for this?" I drawled with a furrowed brow.

"Irene Adler is dead."

"Huh," I remarked lamely.

"That's it," John asked incredulously, "You were ready to do her in, growled whenever Sherlock mentioned her."

"Exactly, I am certainly not the first person to wish permanent bodily harm to the bint," I explained idly.

John laughed shrilly, and shook his head in disbelief. He returned his attention to Myrcoft, and the two shared a look.

"…My brother has the brain of a scientist or philosopher. Yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know."

 _He wants to be the hero._

"Neither do I," Mycroft remarked with a clearly painful smile, "But initially he wanted to be a pirate."

"A pirate," I repeated lowly, my mind returning to one of my favourite adventures.

"Come on, Amy," John mumbled, and rose to his feet.

"Clearly you've got news," Sherlock announced before we even entered the room. John and I shared a look as we hid briefly behind the wall, but stepped into the kitchen. "If it's about the Leeds triple murder, it was the gardener. Nobody noticed the earring."

"Hi. Er, no- it's um…" John struggled.

"It's about Irene Adler," I finished curtly.

The consulting detective's face was unreadable, and that made me furious. Even if he wasn't attracted to her- he was intrigued by her. Something that I could never claim. "Oh? Something happened? Has he come back?" Sherlock inquired, knowing exactly the game he was starting with the clueless John.

I scoffed and rolled my eyes as I stalked over to the window to scowl down at strangers in the street. "Rubbish," I muttered, and folded my arms tightly across my chest.

"No- she's, er, I just bumped into Mycroft downstairs. He had to take a call…"

I heard Sherlock's chair softly drag against the kitchen floor, followed by his smooth gait. "Is she back in London?" the consulting detective pressed.

"No," John explained, "She's- er…She's in America."

"Awful," I spat softly.

"America?" Sherlock repeated.

"Mhm, got herself on a witness protection schemes apparently. Dunno how she swung it, but- er, well- you know," John lied pitifully.

"Pathetic," I muttered.

"I know what?"

"Well, you won't be able to see her again."

"Why would I want to see her again?" Sherlock wondered neutrally.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," I agreed loudly, still facing the window.

"Didn't say you did," John noted ruefully.

"Is that her file?"

"Yup!" I trilled.

"Yes, I was just gonna take it back to Mycroft," John explained, "Do you want to…?"

"No, but I will have the camera phone though," the consulting detective finally said in response.

"There's nothing on it anymore. It's been stripped."

"I know, but I…" Sherlock trailed, seeming to be at a loss for words. I clenched my teeth, straightened my spine, and set back my shoulders. "I'll still have it," he finished.

"Sherlock, I _have_ to give this back to Mycroft. It's the government's now- I couldn't give-"

"-Please."

I snapped around to look at the detective with wide eyes. Sherlock extended his already outstretched hand further; however, his eyes remained fixed through his microscope. John reached into the evidence bag, and slowly withdrew the mobile. He pressed it into Sherlock's hand, whose fingers immediately folded over it. My heart hitched when Sherlock slid the mobile into his trouser pocket.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, dutifully ignoring my hot gaze.

"Well, I'd better take this back," John announced, and he looked at me- clearly at a loss. He made to enter the flat, but returned shortly after reconsideration. "Did she ever text you again after…all that?" he asked, voicing the question that crashed about in my own mind.

"Once, a few months ago," Sherlock answered as he sharpened the focus of his microscope lens.

"What did she say?" I blurted, surprising myself and John.

" _Good bye, Mr. Holmes_."

"Huh," John remarked softly. The doctor paced in front of the doorway, but finally left to go to Speedy's.

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at me. He plucked up his own mobile and strode over to the window to stand beside me. He brought up his messages- all from the Woman- and scrolled through them at a blistering pace.

A photograph caught my eye, and my hand shot out to snatch the mobile from him. "Why did she send you a picture of me?" I demanded shrewdly, and held the phone to my chest when Sherlock made to take it back.

"To test a theory," he dismissed.

" _Is she why you won't have dinner with me?_ " I read aloud.

"A pitiful attempt to unnerve me," Sherlock explained, and took the mobile from me. I walked over to the sofa and dropped onto it, and I resumed my watch of the consulting detective in silence. No emotion played across his face as he took out Irene Adler's mobile from his pocket. He tossed it up, flipping it through the air, and then caught it. "The Woman," he mused as he looked down at the phone. He opened the far-right drawer of the cabinet and placed the camera phone inside; his fingers lingered when they made to retreat, and a thoughtful expression came to his face. " _The_ Woman," he amened, and lifted his head. He left the room, and I heard his bedroom door shut.

 _But initially, he wanted to be a pirate_.

I swung my legs off the sofa, and padded down the hall to find Sherlock. "Oi-" I began, but stopped short when I saw him. He was shirtless, clinically donning on the same dressing gown the dominatrix wore weeks- months- ago. "TARDIS blue," I noted.

"Any tedious reason why you are in here crying?" he grumbled.

"I'm not crying," I argued weakly, and wiped away the tears I knew were there. I walked over to Sherlock's bed and settled into place; I took a deep breath, crossed my legs at the ankle, and summoned the words to begin. "I can't remember where we were planning to go, but even the Doctor didn't intend to land us on a pirate ship- let alone the very ship captained by Black Beard…"

And so, I finally began to tell Sherlock Holmes of the last time lord of Gallifrey, who called himself the Doctor.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next months, Sherlock's reputation grew to obscene proportions and I spent hardly any time at 221B. From the return of the Reichenbach Falls painting, to the rescue of an international banker., Sherlock had wowed them all. John informed me of the cuff links the consulting detective received as gratitude, and I laughed when Mrs. Hudson received two pairs of earrings from a secret admirer. For being absurdly, and arrogantly, intelligent- Sherlock Holmes was oblivious.

A man known as James Moriarty broke into the Tower of London in what the police claimed was an attempt to steal the crown jewels. The slight man possessed these eyes- ones I had not seen since Demon's Run. Without even listening to Sherlock or John, I knew the man was dangerous; the man- even though bound by handcuffs- moved with authoritative purpose, and he appeared to be smiling to himself almost constantly. This was a man equal to Sherlock's caliber in all the wrong ways.

My mobile chimed from the coffee table, and I crawled over the back of the sofa to reach it. It was from John- then again, I never received text messages from anyone else but the inhabitants of 221B.

" _There's a woman here claiming to be your daughter, and Sherlock is ready to kill her._ "

"Melody," I breathed, and hurtled out of my flat.

"Hello, Mother," Melody greeted me as I burst through the door, "He's not here. Couldn't."

"How soon after?"

"Only took a week on my timeline to track you," my daughter explained as she walked about the flat like she lived there. She circled around Sherlock, who looked positively lethal, and she flashed the consulting detective an appreciative smirk. "A definite improvement- Dad wasn't nearly as handsome. It's a shame I'm married myself," she sighed wistfully.

Sherlock had a blank- dare I label it as 'confused'- expression…startled even. He continued to look between River and me- desperately trying to seize a rational conclusion. But the further he delved the more questions he possessed. There was no rational explanation because in his mind this was impossible.

"Have you come to take me back?" I inquired, heart already soaring at the thought of reuniting with the Doctor. River would take me home- back to the TARDIS and back to my best friend.

"She won't be taking you anywhere," John growled when Sherlock remained silent, "Amy, this is insane! There is no way this woman can be your daughter!"

"And I will not be taking you anywhere," my daughter quipped, and languidly took a seat in John's chair.

"Why not?" I demanded softly, ignoring John completely. I walked around Sherlock and stood in front of my daughter. "Melody- River, if you didn't come here to bring me back- then why are you here?"

"Spoilers," she crooned, and crossed her legs at the knee.

"Spoilers," I repeated softly, and my mind drifted back to when the Angels took Manhattan. "The last page," I concluded.

"He won't listen to me, so maybe he'll listen to you," River agreed.

"John, get the typewriter," I requested.

"We don't own a typewriter-"

"-In the hallway closet on the shelf," Sherlock spoke, finally, and his sharp gaze swiveled to fall upon me.

The doctor placed the typewriter on the kitchen table, mindful of Sherlock's beloved microscope. John frowned at me as I dropped into the chair in front of it, but he said nothing. I raised my hands up, but as their fingertips brushed against the cool keys my mind went blank. This was the last good bye the Doctor would hear from me- we were never going to see each other again after all; we were never going to travel in the TARDIS to Gallifrey knows where. My fragile hope of seeing my Raggedy Man finally shattered under the forceful weight of reality, and I found myself at a complete loss.

"Amelia."

My fingers sparked to life, the words began to fall, and I found myself again.

 _Hello, old friend, and here we are. You and me- on the last page. By the time you read these words, Rory and I will be long gone. So know that we lived well, and we're very happy. And above all else, know that we will love you always._

 _Sometimes, I do worry about you though. I think- once we're gone- you won't be coming back for a while, and you might be alone…which you should never be. Don't be alone, Doctor. And do one thing for me…_

 _There's a little girl waiting in a garden- she's going to wait a long while, so she's going to need a lot of hope. Go to her. Tell her a story- tell her that if she's patient, the days are coming that she'll never forget. Tell her she'll go to the sea and fight pirates; she'll fall in love with a man, who'll wait two thousand years to keep her safe. Tell her she'll give hope to the greatest painter who ever lived, and save a whale in outer space._

 _Tell her…this is the story of Amelia Pond. And this is how it ends._

With a trembling hand, I pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter's ream and held it out for River to take. She read my final words to my best friend, and looked up at me sadly. "Mother, why are you going to lie to him?" she asked faintly.

"Rule Number One," I answered, "And I've realised it applies to another man these days."

John's mobile went off, and so I turned my attention to him. His face tensed into a scowl, and he said tersely, "Thanks, Lestrade." John turned to look at Sherlock, who had yet to take his burning eyes off of me. "So, still got _some_ friends on the force. It's Lestrade- says they're all coming over right now, queuing up to slap on the handcuffs. Every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people."

Sherlock stalked over to his armchair, seeming to be at complete ease to ignore the three of us. John and I were glaring incredulously at the consulting detective, and River was intently watching me.

Mrs. Hudson came through the door, and paused when she fell into the growing tension in the room. "Oh, sorry- am I interrupting?" she announced, which earned Sherlock rolling his eyes. The landlady smoothly turned her attention to John, and explained, "Some chap delivered a parcel- I forgot. Marked 'perishable-' I had to sign for it."

John took it from her and his eyes narrowed at the wax seal over the flap. The doctor's reaction made Sherlock look over, and the consulting detective's eyes flashed dangerously when he saw the seal.

"Funny name. German, like the fairy tales," Mrs. Hudson continued.

Sherlock rose stiffly to his feet and walked up to John, his gaze never left the parcel. John broke the seal and reached inside. My pulse faltered when several sets of sirens sounded from both ends of Baker Street, and River instinctively brought up the wrist bearing her vortex manipulator. I looked back to John and saw a large gingerbread man resting in his palm. I walked up to them as John tilted the strange cookie so that Sherlock could get a better look.

"Burnt to a crisp," Sherlock rumbled darkly.

The harsh red and blue lights flashed in the flat's windows, and I heard the engines cut shortly after. Doors were slammed, and I looked to the consulting detective for my answer. But he said nothing.

"What does it mean?" John inquired, but against Sherlock gave no reply.

"Police!" a man bellowed downstairs.

"I'll go," Mrs. Hudson announced without ceremony, and flitted below.

"Sherlock…" a woman called out, "We need to talk to you!"

John put the ruined gingerbread man back in the envelope, and hurried downstairs. He shoved the parcel into my chest, and it was then I noticed the cookie man was not the sole occupant of the envelope. "Sherlock," I announced tremulously, and withdrew the only other item. It was a gingerbread woman, with a TARDIS blue scarf made of frosting, and her eyes were black "x's". Sherlock's eyes narrowed to lethal slits, and he snatched the cookie out of my hand.

He crushed the hardened cookie to unrecognisable crumbs with a twisted grimace.


	7. Chapter 7

"Sherlock," I murmured, "Tell me what's going on. What do I need to do?"

Sherlock turned around to pick up his tell-tale blue scarf, and looped it around his neck. I broke away from River to stand in front of him. But those ageless, beautiful eyes looked on- far away from me- without mercy. I knew that look, too, the emotionless hush of realisation. I had seen it on the Doctor, when he was forced to be reminded of the fate of Gallifrey. Sherlock donned on his coat and turned to face the door.

"You don't have to do this- you don't get to shut us all out!" I spat, and then mumbled, "I am scared, Sherlock, I am- I am properly frightened."

"Amelia-"

Greg Lestrade entered the flat with two armed officers. River pulled me away as one of them walked forwards with handcuffs outstretched. As the cuff circled Sherlock left wrist, Lestrade tersely announced, "Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

"That's bull shite and you know it!" I seethed, "Greg- it's Sherlock!"

"He's not resisting," John growled to the officers roughly handling the consulting detective, gesticulating at Sherlock, and looked at Lestrade as well.

"It's all right," Sherlock said coolly. The officer gave him another harsh nudge.

"He's not resisting. No- it's _not_ all right. This is ridiculous," John argued.

"Get him downstairs. Now," Lestrade ordered.

The officer spun Sherlock around, and began to march him out. "Sherlock," I called out faintly. Everyone looked at me, but Sherlock. "I would pick a better boyfriend next time, Sweets," one of the officers laughed.

"You know you don't have to-" John began in earnest.

The inspector got into John's face, and jabbed a finger into his chest. "Don't try to interfere- either of you. Or I shall arrest the lot of you!" he growled, and shot me a warning look over John's shoulder.

A female detective remained at the door. She watched me with a mild interest, and looked incredibly smug. John glared darkly at her and his hands clenched into fists at his side.

"You done?" he growled behind clenched teeth.

The woman all but strutted into the flat- giving off airs that could bring down a space whale. "Oh, I said it," she boasted.

"Said what?" I demanded coldly.

"First time we met," the detective reminded John.

"Don't bother," John warned.

She walked up to me, grinning wildly. "I told him, 'Solving crimes won't be enough. One day he'll cross the line.' Now ask yourself- what kind of a man would kidnap those kids just so that he can impress us by finding him?"

Mrs. Hudson gasped, and I took a step closer to the woman. My eyes unflinchingly met hers and I inquired, "Ask yourself- what level of stupidity is the tart that actually believes that? Or better yet, why haven't you been the body in the bag that Sherlock put there?" I raised my hand to strike her, but River slyly took hold of my hand before I could even lift it.

"Smarter than the chit who wants to fuc-"

"-Donovan."

"Sir," Donovan greeted.

"Got our man?" the Chief Superintendent drawled.

"Er- yes, sir."

"Looked a bit of a weirdo, if you ask me."

John's face darkened and he turned to face the superintendent. I had seen that look before on him as well.

"Often are- these vigilante types," the oaf prattled on, and looked around the living room. He turned and finally realised John was staring at him. He puffed out his obscenely rotund chest and barked, "What are you looking at?"

I ducked behind my curtain of hair to hide my smirk as John moved forward. I muffled my snicker when I heard the tell-tale crack of bone, and the Chief Inspector squealed like a pig. Beneath my lashes, I saw John be carted away by the lingering officers. I brushed back my hair, and met River's gaze.

"How long have you been in love with him, Mother?" she asked, almost sounding sad.

I wasn't prepared for that. I felt my face go hot and cold all at once. "I don't know," I stammered, "From the beginning- last week- last month."

"Does he know?"

"Of course he does, but not because I told him…"

"Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?"

I flew to the window and beheld Sherlock shackled to John- the former with a gun in his hand aimed at the police officers nearest him. When the cluster of bobbies looked at him dumbly, he fired twice into the air.

"NOW would be good!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Do as he says!" Lestrade ordered, and motioned everyone to the ground.

"Just- Just so you are aware, the gun is his idea. I'm just a- you know…" John explained loudly.

Sherlock brought the pistol over to his right hand, and then aimed it at John's head, "My hostage!" he concluded.

I would have laughed at the absurdity of it all- were it not for my heart not trying to beat its way out of my chest in its terror. I watched my two friends back away from the kneeling police. "We have to help," I began, turning to face River, but my daughter was gone. I looked back through the window just in time to catch the last scrap of Sherlock's belstaff slip into the shadows of a nearby alley. My eyes darted all over Baker Street in search of John and Sherlock's reappearance, but instead fell upon some fresh graffiti.

Huge letters of glistening red paint, at least one metre long, spelled out, "IOU." The strange message was surrounded by intricate angel wings that were so dark- they seemed to absorb all light around them. "I-O-U," I repeated softly, "What does it mean?"

"Oh, Amy, you should get yourself home- you've been through quite a shock," Mrs. Hudson tutted when she came upstairs to shut the door.

"I'm not going anywhere," I mumbled, and looked at her distantly, "I'm not leaving- not this time." I stood at the window until Mrs. Hudson shut the door behind her. I looked at Sherlock's violin, in its dutiful resting place, and then to John's laptop which was still on. I shut the aforementioned down, and picked up the clutter on coffee table. I meandered about the kitchen as I struggled to make a decision on what to do next.

I padded down the hallway, and then slipped into Sherlock's bedroom. I expected to find Irene Adler in his bed, like the first time. But it was only me. I left Sherlock's things untouched, and sat on the edge of his bed. "Doctor, please," I prayed into the silence, "If you can hear me- help him. Save Sherlock Holmes."

I dropped my head onto his pillow. My senses were filled with a sterile scent- not of detergent or bleach- but similar to the neutral air in a hospital ward. It was the clean musk that gently exuded from the consulting detective. Without much warning I started to cry; my tears rolled down the side of the bridge of my nose, and the side of my face…ending on Sherlock's pillow. I wasn't going to disappear- not this time- Sherlock Holmes needed me, whether her knew it or not.


	8. Chapter 8

"Amy? Amy!"

"John!" I cried out, crashing my way blearily out of Sherlock's bedroom. I barely had time to rub the sleep out of my eyes before the doctor took hold of my wrist and pulled me outside. John looked up and down the street, a manic gleam in his eye. A cab pulled over on the opposite side of Baker Street, and John hauled us over to it. A man was leaning down to talk into the cracked driver window about to tell the driver his destination, but John clearly had other plans. He opened the rear door, shoved me inside, and growled out, "No, no, no, no- police! Sort of."

"Where is Sherlock?" I demanded.

"St. Bart's- fast as you can. About to do something stupid," John answered brokenly.

"Why aren't you with him?!"

Because I got a call saying you were dying!" John retorted, a vein pulsing ominously at his temple, "And that prick sent me to you. Git nearly kills a man for laying a finger on you, but won't come say good bye when he's told you're dying."

"He doesn't like good byes- too permanent, a fixed point in time," I mumbled, knowing just how similar Sherlock Holmes and the Doctor are.

The taxi pulled up to the backside of St. Bart's, and John once again took hold of my hand as he opened the door. John's mobile rang from his jacket's pocket, and he brought it up to his ear. "Hello?" he panted, "…Hey, Sherlock, you okay?

"…No, I'm coming in." He stopped our approach to the backdoor, bewildered, and then led us back along the road we just walked down. "Sherlock?" he pressed when we came to a final stop.

John's gaze snapped up to the rooftop, and I watched his face ashen and grow pale. "Oh, god," he gasped. I followed his eyes and found Sherlock standing on the edge of the roof; I knew how this ended, for I had played the role Sherlock was given. Winter's Quay had come back to me, one last time.

"What's going on?" John inquired anxiously, "…Wh- What?" He stared up at the consulting detective in disbelief. "Why are you saying this? …Sherlock."

My heart thundered in my chest, my ribs suddenly too fragile to hold such an untamable, beating creature. My ignorance was killing me- I was forced to endure the half conversation between my only two friends in this timeline.

"Okay- shut up, Sherlock, shut up," John demanded heatedly, "The first time we met…the _first time we met_ , you knew all about my sister, right? … _You_ could." John shook his head and argued, "No. All right, stop it now…All right." His lips trembled, and he pulled his phone away from his ear to meet my burning eyes.

"J- John?" I stammered.

"Sher- hm, he wants to talk to you," John explained flatly, and shoved the mobile into my clammy hand.

Haltingly, I brought it up to my ear and mumbled, "Sherlock?"

" _Was it worth it?_ "

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

" _Was it worth meeting me at the cost of your Raggedy Man?_ "

"Don't be stupid," I huffed, "You know the answer."

" _I'm a fake. It's just a magic trick, Amelia, all of it._ "

"No! I don't believe you- I will never believe that!" I stammered, and beseeched imploringly, "I will _always_ believe in you, Sherlock Holmes. You are that smart- Moriarty is real- please. Sherlock, I am scared- properly, properly frightened…stop this. Please, come down- come down and you'll figure it out. You always do. Let me find the Doctor- he'll help! He always does… _Please_ , Sherlock, come down."

" _Such faith,_ " Sherlock murmured in relief, " _Amelia Pond, the girl who believed and came to stay._ "

"The belief of one is enough- I know it is. Sherlock…stay, please. With John- with me."

" _Good bye, Amelia._ "

The line went dead.

My eyes snapped to the rooftop to look at the consulting detective. Sherlock spread out his arms, and I foolishly believed he would take flight. I tried to move- to race up the stairs and pull him away from the edge. Sherlock leaned forward and the eagerly awaiting gravity took him.

"SHERLOCK!"

It was worse than when I fell with Rory. With Rory, we were together. Together, or not at all. But Sherlock Holmes was alone. He left me, and I lost the man I had grown to love more than the Doctor…maybe more than Rory. When Sherlock fell, I no longer was _Amelia Pond, the girl who waited- who stayed_ , I become something else. I became the Girl who Watched. I watched the last chance for love fall through the air.

John and I surged forward to go to him, but my friend was knocked off his feet by a cyclist. I easily dodged the aforementioned, and crashed to my knees at Sherlock's side. His azure eyes of steel blazed bright against his too-pale skin…and the blood. All that blood. The blood- my torn tights were soaked with it, my hands stained. They trembled as I tried to wipe away the blood that trailed across Sherlock's face.

"No, no, no," I sobbed pitifully, "You can't- you can't do this, Sherlock. You have to-"

People flocked around us, all voices hushed, and several pairs grabbed onto me. I fell over Sherlock, going limp, but the hands around me had a fierce hold.

"Let me through…he's my friend," John breathed distantly, and mindlessly pushed his way through, "He's my friend."

"Let go of me! I won't leave him!" I screamed, "I can't- Sherlock!"

"Jesus," John panted, and sagged to the ground.

I shot out a hand and latched onto Sherlock's wrist. There was no pulse. A medical team appeared with a gurney out of the corner of my eye. They lifted Sherlock onto it, and he was taken away from me. The hands still held me back, and my screamed shook my being. Sherlock Holmes was lost to me, just like my Raggedy Man- just like Rory.

All that remained of the consulting detective was the blood. That scarlet liquid was all I had left of him.

I let John have his privacy with Sherlock's gravesite, and followed Mrs. Hudson a short distance. "I'm leaving, leaving London," I announced to her retreating figure.

Her shoulders sagged, and her head briefly bowed. "I don't blame you, dearie, not at all," she replied. She turned around and wrapped her arm me as I cried in ernest. "But I will miss you," she added.

"I see him everywhere-" I stammered, "I can't close my eyes without- without seeing him on that rooftop…why does it hurt so much?"

"Because your love was real, sweetheart, and that kind of love leaves its mark forever."

"Will you tell John? I am feel like such a coward-"

"-No, you're brave just like the boys…I mean John, and perhaps you're braver than th-him," Mrs. Hudson interjected tenderly, and embraced me one last time.

I left the woman to walk about until John took his leave. So many people lay beneath the ground whilst those who loved them carried on. How do you go on when the wound never heals- how do you start again…for a second time? I stood in front of the polished obsidian marble of Sherlock Holmes. And with the aching surge in my chest, I let the words slip out of my mouth.

"If there is one thing I can remember through all my adventures with the Doctor, it would be to never lose faith in those you love. I won't stop believing in you, you know. No matter what you claim to be, Sherlock Holmes, it will take a lot more than all you can give for me to stop believing in you. Because I will always believe in you," I rambled, and then whimpered, "Why didn't you let me save you?"

Silence fell.

"If I could, I would wait for you to come back… I never imagined being anyone's Centurion- that was always Rory. Rory was the one who loved the fiercest, not me. At least not until I met you. As stupid as it sounds- I never thought I could love anyone enough to be worthy of the title Centurion.

"But I will never have the chance…you made a fixed point in time, you know. I will never be able to see you again." I now understand the agony those words caused the Doctors until I had uttered them myself. I sat beside the tombstone and rested my head against the cold marble. "Please, Sherlock," I beseeched, "I lost Rory and the Doctor- I can't lose you. You fixed me…by being your elitist, suppressed, brilliant self- you fixed me."

The wheezing, groaning sound that brought hope to all who heard it did nothing for me now. I saw the blue police box materialise in the reflective surface of the tombstone, and there was no happiness in me.

"He's dead," I mumbled, eyes fixed on the tombstone.

"I'm sorry," my Raggedy Ma said softly, "I am so sorry."

"How could you let this happen?" I sobbed.

"Amelia-" the Doctor began.

"-NO!" I yelled, and clambered to my feet to face him. I looked at my best friend in anger. "You lost that right to that name when you left me! You abandoned me- without Rory- without you! I have lost the only person that matters anymore, and I had to watch him die."

"I am sorry- so very sorry."

"Sorry that you let him die? Sorry that you didn't listen to River?"

"You don't understand," the Doctor said softly.

"-Enough," I interjected, "Raggedy Man…I need you, I need my best friend." I sagged against him as his arms wrapped around me, and felt like I could breathe again. The Doctor smelt of time and, though I was certain I imagined it, fish fingers and custard. Not like Sherlock at all.

"You love him," the Doctor mused omnipotently, "…More than Rory?"

"Maybe."

"Doctor?"

I raised my head and saw a young woman. I smiled halfheartedly at her before returning my attention to my best friend. "At least you listened for a little bit," I murmured wryly.

"She helps."

"Good. Go on- you shouldn't leave her waiting," I replied, "And Doctor?"

"Yes, Pond?"

My light mirth fell- he wasn't the last to call me that. "Don't forget me, all right?"

"Never," he promised, and slipped into the TARDIS. As she dimmed out of sight, I recalled my time with Vincent. I made a promise to him, and I would strive to follow it. I would hold onto hope- for that was all I had left, really. Hope in Sherlock Holmes for a miracle.

 _ **Fin.**_


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